The Eye of the Beholder
by Ig0r
Summary: It takes Alex a moment to realize that the small, drunken man with his head in his hands is actually the unbeatable Charles Xavier. Slight AU. Oneshot.


**Summary: **It takes Alex a moment to realize that he small, drunken man with his head in his hands is actually the unbeatable Charles Xavier.

**Author's Note:** It was late, but you know how inspiration can get. Yes, Charles can walk. It's only because I can't imagine him doing this scene in a wheelchair. This was inspired by my dad's undying question: "Do ugly people make ugly things, or do ugly things make ugly people?" This story is my answer.

**Pairings:** None. Unless your slash goggles are set to uber-fine-print.

**The Eye of the Beholder**

Alex is awoken by a German curse.

It's loud and colourful, and strangely familiar, now that he thinks about it. In fact, for a split second he is surprised that someone as graceful as Erik Lensherr has tripped down the stairs – and then he remembers.

Curiosity overwhelms Alex. What idiot is wondering around at night, after curfew, and with the Professor in that mood. . . With Erik ruled out, he's left with the remaining men in the mansion; the voice was distinctly male. Sean, while a teenage boy at heart, is in too much awe of Charles to even consider breaking one of his rules. The thought would never even cross Hank's mind.

It leaves Alex with one possibility, and it scares him.

Alex's bedroom door creeps open, seemingly of its own violation. Down the stairs he ghosts, following the sound of muttered swears and shuffling feet.

The kitchen light is on. There is the clinking of bottles and rustling of paper.

Alex takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with courage. His head peers around the doorframe, and the sight he finds it anything but what he expected.

There are beer bottles. They are amber in colour, and most of them are empty. They are sitting in their six-pack, having been carried from upstairs, and smudged with dirty fingerprints. Unbroken = not angry.

There are papers. Newspapers, from the looks of them. But for all the attention given to them, they might as well have been blank.

There is a man. He is small and drunk, with his forehead flush against the table top. He seems asleep, if not for the lazy ring his finger traces around the neck of a bottle. It takes Alex a moment to realize that this man is actually the unbeatable Charles Xavier.

He takes a seat across from his professor, unsure of what to do. If Charles is even semi-conscious, he probably knows he's there, but the man seems content with his unbroken bottles and blank papers, so Alex doesn't make a sound.

It is a while before Charles moves.

"Am I a beautiful man, Alex?" he croaks. Alex pauses, not sure of the direction of the conversation. There is beauty in body, and beauty in soul, and Alex can only hope the professor is talking about the latter.

"Uh, yes sir."

"Have I done ugly things, Alex?" Alex hesitates, but the professor gives him no room to retaliate.

"I have done ugly things, but I am not an ugly man." He says it like a prayer; softly, reverently, definitely. The words float around the kitchen – around the unbroken beer bottles and blank newspapers. They land in Alex's lap. The boy stares at them with apprehension.

"Is Erik a beautiful man?"

Alex looks up from his lap, eyes now glued to the professor. Charles' head is still on the table, but the finger tracing the bottle neck has stopped.

Alex replies, "I suppose so, sir," and waits.

There is a moment in time. Then:

"He has done ugly things," says Charles, this time like a death sentence – regret, with finality. "But he is a beautiful man.

"We are beautiful men doing ugly things, in a world of ugly people trying to do beautiful things."

At this point, Alex has lost the conversation all together. He watches as the professor sighs and shifts before lying still. Then, with all the grace of the late Erik Lensherr, he disposes of the empty bottles, hides the remaining pack in the back of the refrigerator, and climbs the stairs for bed.

The next morning, Charles Xavier walks down the stairs. There is no tripping or German curse. No beer bottles, newspapers, or epiphanies to be taken care of. He simply marches into the kitchen to supervise the chaos that is breakfast, like any other morning, and all Alex can do is watch.

He wonders if he himself is a beautiful man.


End file.
